The Hands
I stare through the hole at the sanded floor and study the wooden grain
The sound of whales pipes quietly in the corner and washes over my mind
And I, whale-like, lie on the bed, waiting.
The nylon tabbard brushes my dangling arm
Signalling the presence of The Hands
Which start to glide unendingly up and down my cobbled back
Relax, I tell myself
And then immediately begin to worry if I would relax before the hour is up.
What if I never relax? Then the hour is wasted.
And if I relax too much? Will I fall asleep and waste the hour?
And so my mind wanders like a butterfly alighting on flowers of triviality and anxiety
And The Hands continue their well-practised, well-oiled art
Strange that it feels a bit like love, though I know hands cannot ‘love’
And handfuls of sand are rubbed into my head
At least this is what it sounds like as the fingers rub my hair
As they travel back down my spine, delicately, considerately, persistently
They flatten the bumps I never knew were there
I wondered if the cobbles of my life be so thoroughly tarmacked
The journey would undoubtedly be easier,
Though perhaps less picturesque.
